The roof slid open and her weave tensed with a painful twist of hope. Six of her people tumbled in, layering upon the crowd already in residence. It took only an instant for her hope to die again. They were already formed into three mirrored pairs. They were already complete. He was not among them.
Like all the others, each pair nuzzled together, their cuffs folded around each other to bind them amidst the tangled masses of their kindred. Only she lay alone, the only one with green stripes, aquamarine at toe and heel. With every sliding of the roof she hoped to see that same patterning descend as he returned to her.
The last time they’d been together, long ago, they had spent a cosy night lying on the fireplace rug, later sneaking softly to the bedroom. There, in a moment of passion they had been kicked off carelessly. She landed in the middle of the room. She did not see where he landed. The next morning she was swept into the laundry basket. He was not.
The odd sock waited, unworn and wanting.